


Carrion Flowers: Prologue

by CrowsQuartz



Series: Carrion Flowers [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowsQuartz/pseuds/CrowsQuartz
Summary: Re:The dead, and the people who loved them.
Series: Carrion Flowers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109408
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Jacque

**Author's Note:**

> Carrion Flowers is a personal project, written in-between studying and classes. It's a lot of fun for me, and I hope it'll be a lot of fun for you. Carrion Flowers has two "prologues" which serve as an intro to its main characters. Chapter 1 should be posted soon, which'll start the story in earnest.  
> This work might be a little rough around the edges. I'm not a full-time writer, so I'd just like to get it published, rather than perfected. I hope you'll enjoy it reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

When he hears it was through the eye, he remembers that day on the lake.

It’d been cloudy for a week, but the skinny black kid in the dark suit wouldn’t have known the difference. The curtains had been replaced, and the windows and mirrors shrouded in heavy, black cloth. Pictures of his father in his cap and uniform were everywhere, each adorned with a black satin ribbon.

He hated it. The air was getting stale and hot in his lungs, and the black wool suit was suffocating. He didn’t understand back then why he and his mother had to set out white lillies and wear these awful clothes and shut out all the light. The two of them weren’t dead yet.

His mother wasn’t really meant to travel yet- especially not to a friend’s- but she hadn’t been meant to go the cemetery either. Regardless, she had followed the hearse with the men through all of Paris weeks ago, and she would help her son load his black wools and silk into a suitcase now. They both caught an early train out of the city, then a cab, and he was thankful for the sharp, cold smell of green earth and ozone.

When he arrived at the cabin, a woman he didn’t recognize threw open the door. She wore another black dress, like his mother’s, and they kissed each other on each cheek.

“Madame Stein, my love, je suis désolé,” she said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Since the funeral, he had seen many of his mother’s friends, but each carried the cold pity of a mourner, veiled beneath formality. With this woman, whoever she was, there was an instant connection. He saw his mother light up with warmth and comfort, and felt himself warmed along with her. His mother pulled him from behind her skirts and introduced him.

“Madame Hyde, c’est Jacque”, she said, and the other woman bent down to hold him tight.

“You’re so grown,” she said, “I haven’t seen you since you were in your cradle”. She stood, and a young boy, about Jacque’s age, emerged from the cabin behind her. He held a hand out for Jacque.

“Je m’appelle Cyrus!” He grinned broadly.

Jacque took his hand and shook it, “One of your teeth is gone”. Cyrus took his other hand out of his pocket, and placed the milk-white baby tooth in Jacque’s open palm.

“I was gonna leave it for the tooth fairy, but I want you to have it!” Mme. Hyde rolled her eyes, and Jacque’s mother stifled a laugh.

“Thanks,” Jacque said, and pocketed it.

“Shall we?” Mme. Hyde said, and stepped into the cabin. The hearth was roaring, and something must’ve been cooking in the heavy iron pot, because the smell was incredible. Jacque and his mother unpacked, and the first night, the two women made apple pie together. Jacque’s mother was rolling the pastry and the butter together when she started to cry, and she cried for a long time while Mme. Hyde held onto her. The butter melted out of the pastry, but they all ate the sweet, buttered, cinnamon apples out of a great wooden bowl, and his mother slept through the whole night for the first time since they’d gotten the news.

It was still raining the next day, so their mothers sat by the hearth and stitched old clothes while the boys ate porridge.

“Mom, I want to show Jack the lake”.

“Alright dear, but take an umbrella, and lend Jacque your boots. It’s still muddy out”.

Cyrus took Jacque by the arm, and they set out together in the rain. Jacque held the umbrella while Cyrus talked excitedly about the games he’d play at the schoolyard, or facts he’d read about in books.

“Did you know? Sometimes a dragon isn’t actually a dragon, so instead they’re called wyverns,” Cyrus said “Weye-verrns” with the distinctive lull of an English accent, and Jacque wondered how long it’d been since he came to Paris. “They’re only called Dragons if they can breathe fire, and then they’re called ‘True’ Dragons, which I guess makes all the other ones ‘Liar-liar-pants-on-fire’ Dragons”.

“It’s not fire,” Jacque said beneath the hood of his black cloak, “Papa said it’s called ‘radiation’. They call it Wildfire because it spreads”.

Cyrus was dumbstruck. “Wow!! Really?? You must be so smart, Jacque!” Jacque had been praised a lot in the last few weeks by the mourners, but always because he was _So brave_ or _So strong_ or _The man of the house now_ in a way that made Jacque feel pathetic. It was nice to hear _smart_ for a change.

The lake was so full from the rain that Jacque thought it might spill over. Thick trees blanketed the banks from the rain, allowing only a few heavy drops to fall onto the moss or the water, each creating a soft plonk.

“It’s pretty,” Jacque said.

“Have you ever skipped a stone before?”

“Um, no”.

Cyrus sorted through the mud for a while before finding a smooth flat stone, and tossed it into the clear water. Instead of sinking, it touched the water and flew, hopping three or four times before finally dropping down into the lake.

“Amazing!” Jacque picked one up and threw it, but it only made a splash. Without a word, Cyrus found another skipping stone, and put it in Jacque’s hand. He held Jacque’s wrist and moved the rock between his forefinger and thumb. Even at his school, Jacque didn’t often touch hands with the other students. They’d throw balls or play hopskotch. And of course, Jacque’s mother held his hand often, to cross the railway or walk to the store, or just to comfort him. But Cyrus’ hands were small like his own, warm, and rough from years of scrabbling up trees or over brambles.

“You have to throw it like this”.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Jacque asked, “You just feel bad for me like everyone else”. Jacque pulled his hand away, and threw another rock straight beneath the surface.

Cyrus picked up another for him. “Am not,” he said, “Momma said you need some cheering up, s’all”.

“You do feel bad for me!” Jacque threw it, and again it failed to soar like the first one did.

“Do not!” Again, Cyrus put a flat, muddy rock in Jacque’s light palm. “And I know you’re sad. What’s wrong with feeling bad for you, anyways?”.

“Am not!” Jacque threw it, hard, but it missed the water altogether, clacking against a big rock on the shore, and ricocheting out towards the boys.

Jacque found himself crying. Hot, wet tears spilled down his cheeks, and he found his breath coming out in little hitching gasps before he knew why. Jacque wasn’t sad. He missed his dad, of course, and he wished his mom wouldn’t cry. But he wasn’t sad. So what was he feeling now?

Cyrus sat next to him in the mud. When Jacque looked up, he realized the rock had hit Cyrus, cutting his eyebrow. Blood streaked down his cheekbone, and his eye had already purpled and swollen shut. Even still, he smiled. Cyrus’ grin was so wide, it showed his gap tooth and curled his other eye up in delight.

“What?” Jacque muttered.

“When my papa died,” Cyrus said, “everybody told me I had to be big and strong for my momma. It took me a long time to cry. I thought I was dead too, because he was. But I felt better when I cried.”

Jacque laughed a little, sniffling. “You wanted to make me cry?”

Cyrus took the sleeve of his coat, and wiped one of Jacque’s tears. As they sat together, and Jacque finished crying, a cloud finally broke. Sunlight reflected from the shimmering surface of the lake. Cyrus’ hair and eye were dark, but in the light, Jacque saw their fiery warmth, each eyelash shining gold. Jacque felt the sun move over him, heating him to the bones.

That was when he first fell in love, Jacque thinks.

Years later, when a dragon had flown too close to Paris, the military police shot it down over the lake. The water was ruined, along with the rest of the countryside, and a few years after that, Cyrus joined the Dragon Corps. Jacque went to University, but they still saw each other often. Cyrus would sneak out of the barracks to visit, and to tell Jacque stories about the latest thing he had seen, or the place he had just been. Cyrus would tell him about being stationed in Italy. Verona had huge open-air cemeteries, he would say. You’re studying cemeteries, aren’t you, Cyrus would ask. I’ll take you someday, he’d promise. Now, this morning, his picture was in the newspaper.

It was through the eye, the newspaper said. That same eye Jacque had hit with his skipping stone, and that bore a mark on its brow from that day at the lake. That eye that shone gold in the sunlight, and that peeked out at Jacque, only Jacque, with a wry delight from beneath the military cap, making his chest ache.

A stray bullet went through that eye, and lodged itself somewhere in the back of his skull. Jacque keeps rereading it, looking back at that picture. He must be reading it wrong. He feels dizzy, keeps expecting the words to change as they spin, but each time they stubbornly refuse. Pronounced dead at 4:32 this morning. Jacque doesn’t know what to do. Then, all at once, he does.


	2. Luka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re:The dead, and the people who loved them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Part 2! This is the last half of the prologue, which means Chapter 1 will be posted next. Hopefully I've formatted this all correctly. The prologues and the actual story should be linked together as one "Series", under the name Carrion Flowers. Well, as soon as I write the actual story, anyways.

Her grandfather named her Luka. He had her hair cut short, and enrolled her at an all boy’s catholic school. When the boys would pick on her, he’d sit with her in his library and they’d study Machiavelli and Sun Tzu. Before long, the boys knew better. He raised her on horseback and in the fencing piste. He nourished her on food, and water, and decades worth of blood, remembered from his time in the Crusades. Then he died, and left her alone.

She stood alone in a crowd of mourners who traded stories about him. Luka had only ever met a few of them- old veterans, scarred by teeth or claws or the effects of Wildfire. Before her grandfather died, his friends would call her “ragazzina” or “caraibica”, but they always let her play poker. They’d ask how the boys at school were treating her. They’d tell her stories about her grandfather. Then, all Luka had were those stories. Luka attended the burial outside the manor where she grew up, knowing it would never really be home again. That was when Luka met her for the first time.

Viola had made her debut at court about a year ago. She’d been attending events like this since, to keep up appearances. The signor who passed on had been an important friend of her father’s from the old days, so it was important the Royal Family make an appearance. With the rise of a new political group, Yggdrasil, the Crown’s influence was in more danger than ever. It was important the King’s sweet daughter arrive, remind the people what her family stood for. She wore a new black dress for the occasion, a simple frock. Her dark skin shone in the light. Her cloud of dark hair was drawn into neat plaits. Viola’s uncle, Signor Angelo, who was with her, wore a similarly sparse black suit and coat.

Signor Angelo only said two things to Luka. First, “Are you San Giorgio’s granddaughter?”

Luka recognized her Grandfather’s old nickname, and nodded. Then,

“Do you want a job?”

———

“Buon lavoro, Principessa,” Luka smiled wryly. As Viola’s retainer, it was Luka’s responsibility to keep her swordplay sharp. Luka had been well-trained by her grandfather, but Viola’s royal education had all the money for fencing masters. Now, years after their first meeting, Viola had Luka at sword-point in the courtyard. “Remind me why you keep me around? You’re more than capable of protecting yourself”.

“Then who would be the lucky victim of my regular practice?” Viola caressed Luka’s cheek with the tip of her blade. “Besides, you’ve taught me soooo much,” she purred.

“Ah, well, I,” Luka flushed, “it’s my honor, My Lady”.

Viola withdrew her blade. “And anyways, I’ll be the Queen soon. Queens don’t fight their own battles.”

“Not even with me?”, Luka pouted, and Viola helped her back up.

“Well, I can make an exception.” Viola stood, tucked her sword under her arm, and brushed the dirt from the knees of her breeches. “We’ve got to change, I’m needed at the ball tonight. Will you be my attendant?”

Luka watched her untuck her dark cloud of hair and let it fall around her shoulders and jawline. “Of course, my lady”.

———

That night had been as beautiful and stuffy as any other royal occaision. But that evening, when they’d had enough and slipped out of the arcade, Luka would remember forever. The stars were beautiful, and the flora in the lamps had begun their soft fluorescent glow. Luka let her tie slip, her collar fall open, and hung her jacket out on the balcony.

“Would you help me out?”, Viola asked, and Luka loosened the ties at her back dutifully. Viola picked up Luka’s jacket and threw it over her bare shoulders. She untied the ribbon in her hair, tossed it at Luka, and laughed. Luka watched the wind run through her hair, and her heart jumped in her chest. She pocketed her ribbon.

“Should I get us one last drink?” Luka offered.

“I’d love that”, Viola said. She grabbed Luka by the now-loose tie, and drew her in for a kiss.

“I love you,” Luka murmured, and sauntered back out to the halls. She slipped into a side room off the main foyer, and took two flutes of champagne from one of the waiters.

“Grazie mille,” she said to him, and Luka saw she had entered the chamber where Viola’s Uncle Angelo and his friends had gathered. “Buonasera, My Lord”, Luka said.

“Buonasera, Luka”, he said. The chattering had stopped. “Where’s Viola?”

“I’m just getting some drinks”, Luka said, and patted the sword at her hip with a free hand. “Non preoccuparti, she’s safe in my care”.

“I should hope so”, he said. None of his sullen companions spoke. “With Viola to be crowned so soon, I worry for her. Yggdrasil is moving in the shadows, even now.”

“Oh?” Luka took a sip from one of the flutes, “Well let those bastards try,” Luka felt the night’s drink swell within her, “Viola’s safer than in a fortress with me!”

“That’s the spirit”, Viola’s uncle hummed. He called one of the waiters over. “Get a bottle for my niece and her guard, per favore? And that special drink.”

Luka raised an eyebrow, and the waiter produced a flask of swirling, shimmering gold. “It is a royal drink, given to the monarch before his coronation. Viola’s father had a taste from this very same brew.”

Luka held the little vial reverently. “Oh, grazie mille Zio Angelo!” Luka took them both graciously. “You’re a good man, My Lord.”

“Buonanotte, Luka”.

———

She arrived back at Viola’s bedroom. “Principessa!”

“Benvenuti, Luka”. Viola was still at the balcony, nodding off in her chair.

“Ciao Viola!” Luka collapsed next to her, and handed Viola the vial. “Your uncle says this was your father’s. Una bevanda per un Rei.”

“My father’s?” Viola held the little vial up to the starlight and watched it swirl between her fingers. “Here’s to you, papà.” She split the wax seal and downed the little drink, lips stained with glittering gold. Luka poured them each a glass of champagne.

“I take it you’re ready to be a ruler?” Luka said, and swallowed another mouthful of cold fresh champagne.

“I think I am” Viola said, tightening Luka’s jacket around her. “I was nervous at first. When father died. But now, I think… I’m… ready”. Viola clutched at her necklace, and pulled it loose with a snap. She dropped the little vial, which shattered on the balcony. “I- I think-”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Luka looked over at Viola, and froze. She was clutching her throat, and struggling hard to breath. When she tried to talk, she choked. Blood poured from her mouth.

“Viola!” Luka jumped to her feet, and rushed to her side. Viola stood up, the front of her gown stained red. “Viola! Viola, what’s happening?”

There was a knock at the door. Luka recognized the baritone of Viola’s uncle, the former King’s brother. “Viola, are you there? May we speak?” All at once, a cold wave of realization crashed down on Luka. She realized exactly what he’d done- what he’d made her do. 

Viola choked and sputtered on gold-stained bile, while Luka tried desperately to pat her back, help her breathe.

“Guards!” Viola’s Uncle bellowed, and soon the door was broken at the hinges. Luka cradled Viola’s cold body in the dark. Her other arm held her sword, point drawn relentlessly on the final member of the royal family.

“Bastard”, she wept, “You dirty bastard!”

“Oh god,” He said to the guards, “She’s dead.”

A guard drew his sword and approached Luka. She swung at him wildly, but her eyes never left the late king’s brother Angelo. Other guards approached her.“Luka, you’re under arrest”, one of them said.

Luka placed Viola on the ground, gently, then stood. She lunged at Angelo, blade slashing him across the face. Finally, one of the guards caught her by the wrist and threw her backwards. She stumbled, heel catching on Viola’s limp skirt, and she tripped over the princess’ slumped form. Luka collapsed backwards, sword falling from her grip and slipping off the balcony.

Angelo, Viola’s uncle killer, one hand held to his blood-streaked face, moved over Viola’s body and held her. As Luka stood, the guards moved towards her, swords drawn.

Luka gave one last look at her girlfriend. She turned, and went sailing over the railing into the fountain below.

———

Luka sat, soaking wet, in a tavern. She clipped her shoulder on the concrete basin of the fountain on her way down. It hurt, badly, and her open shirt was soaking with blood. She had retrieved her sword, at least, but it wouldn’t be long before every polizia in Verona would be looking for her. Luka wondered if there was a single Italian who wouldn’t hear what she’d done by sunrise.

She was starting to sober up by the hearth, which only meant she felt the cold chill in her bones freshly. She’d have to run. And to hide, somewhere she’d never be found. Viola’s uncle was now the only remaining heir of the royal family. He’d have the police, the military, and every eye in the nation on her trail.

Then Luka thought of him, being crowned in Viola’s place, laying her body in the royal tombs, setting flowers on her casket in the view of photographers. She thought of the speech he’d give at her funeral, regretting her untimely death, promising to take up her responsibilities, mourning the very girl he’d killed. It made Luka sick.

She stood up, dripping water all the way to the bar. “Do you have any clothes?”

“What am I, a tailor?”

“Do you have any rooms then?”

“No, we’re full. Are you just gonna stand there soaking wet, or are you gonna buy a drink?”

Luka crossed back to the fire. She watched a policeman come into the bar, and she froze. Before she could duck her head, he locked eyes with her.

“Barkeep, got any rooms?” In his voice, she recognized the familiar haze of liquor, and breathed a sigh of relief. It would be noon tomorrow before this officer woke up and heard the news, started looking for her.

“The usual is open for you, go on and collapse,” the barkeep told him, and the policeman trotted upstairs.

Luka waited until the tavern owner’s back was turned, and slipped upstairs herself. She listened to the policeman undress himself clumsily, then settle into bed. When he was snoring loudly, she carefully opened the door and snuck inside.

Finally, she opened the second floor window, adjusted her new stolen uniform, and climbed down the tavern’s facade. Her shoulder gave her trouble, and she eventually had to jump the last few feet to the ground.

Luka was careful to take Viola’s ribbon from the pocket of her other slacks and place them into the coat of the officer before she changed. It might be all of the princess Luka would see for a long while.

Luka gave the royal palace one last look, recognizing the emergency torches and the distant call of alarm bells, before she turned her back and disappeared into the moonlit alleys of Verona.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this marks the end of the CF prologue. I'll try to get Ch. 1 up shortly! You should be able to find it linked under the Series tab, as soon as it gets posted.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this, so I hope you enjoy reading it! Let me know what you think. Updates should be about weekly. I'm a full-time student at the moment (I'm actually ignoring an online class right now in order to post this) so please be patient with the update schedule. You can follow me on twitter @CrowsQuartz , or at CrowsQuartz.tumblr.com, where Carrion Flowers was originally posted.


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